


Shake Through the Wreckage

by laconicisms



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Begging, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/laconicisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Children of Earth, Jack is in need of comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shake Through the Wreckage

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for [](http://kink-las.livejournal.com/profile)[**kink_las**](http://kink-las.livejournal.com/) round IV a couple of months ago.

_Please, help me. Please, make it stop. Please, just please._

"Jack," the Doctor says. "I can't."

So many things he can fix, but not this. Never this. Jack knows, of course, has known all along. You don't mess with time, not with any of the fixed points anyway, and the 456 are fixed. The Doctor's words still feel like a punch to the gut, driving all air from Jack's lungs.

"I can't fix it, Jack," the Doctor says, as he steps forward, placing his hands on Jack's face.

"Please," Jack whispers again.

 _Please, take my mind off it._

It goes unsaid, but not unheard. The Doctor's expression hardly changes at all. Still sympathetic, still _empathic_ , still completely and utterly knowing.

"There's no remedy," the Doctor murmurs. His hands feel warm against Jack's skin. There's no remedy, no; there's only a placebo, and Jack will take it.

  
\--

  
They find themselves in Jack's old room, the room he stayed in when he was still the Doctor's companion. Jack barely notices. He wants; he _wants_. He's pulling at the Doctor's clothes, pulling off his jacket, his tie, his shirt; pushing his face into the crook between head and shoulder, breathing in the scent - so alien, so home. The Doctor smells like the TARDIS but warmer, more human though he isn't. But most of all he smells like comfort. Jack's breath hitches.

"Hush," the Doctor says; his own hands are busy undressing Jack, and Jack takes a step backing, putting some distance between them to make it easier. Soon they're both down to pants and shoes. Jack struggles out of the rest of his clothes quickly, then sits on the bed, fingers tapping his knee, leg twitching. He watches as the Doctor puts his pants over the back of the only chair in the room and turns back to face Jack. For a few seconds, neither of them moves. Then the Doctor nods to himself and strides forward, grasping Jack's shoulders and crushing his mouth against Jack's. He pushes Jack down until he's lying prone on the bed, buried beneath the Doctor's body. His hands travel down Jack's arms, closing around his wrists hard enough to bruise, and Jack shudders.

"Please," he repeats. No other word will leave Jack's mouth; it's as if he has forgotten every word but this one.

The Doctor's lips twitch, but his eyes are as sad as ever. "Yes." Then he starts to move, rubbing his cock against Jack's in a slow, steady rhythm: three, four, five times, and Jack whines in frustration. He doesn't want slow; he wants fast and furious. Most of all he doesn't want to be able to think.

"Please," Jack gasps against the Doctor's mouth, and the Doctor hums and bites Jack's lower lip. He picks up the pace, though, which is all Jack cares about - that and the taste of his own blood in his mouth. It's fast and it's hard, and the Doctor is breathing harshly, and Jack is panting, and fuck and fuck and _fuck_! Jack comes, flying apart, mind spread out thin and going white, empty.

He's floating; for a moment, he's floating. High on endorphins, and the Doctor is his drug. He thinks he might become addicted. Jack's eyes lock with the Doctor's even as he comes, spilling his seed over Jack's body, and for once they look untroubled.


End file.
